


Four Years and a Photograph of You

by echoes_of_another_life



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:55:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoes_of_another_life/pseuds/echoes_of_another_life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s one shot at normal. A character piece covering the four years Sam spent in Palo Alto (eyebrows Kripke). An exploration of his feelings and his separation from Dean, his relationship with Jessica and the normal, safe life she represented until it all came crashing down with the re-emergence of everything he’d been running from. Yeah, that'd be Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Years and a Photograph of You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whimsicalnotion](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=whimsicalnotion).



> This is a Six Chapter Piece, which is being posted in its entirety, although each chapter has its own subheading and describes several different stages in Sam’s life and character development, those being: Awareness, Torture (No, not the physical kind :p), Salvation, Damage, Experience and finally, Love.

You see him all the time, he’s your friend, your best friend, he’s the guy sitting in the muscle car every day after school. The guy with the window wound down and the music blaring, arm resting on the cold-black metal of the car’s door panel, fingers drumming out a beat, lips curling around the lyrics of Ride the Lightning or Ain’t my Bitch or whatever track screams, ‘The Greatest Hits of Mullet Rock’. And when you say, screams, you mean, screams. 

He’s the one everybody seems to stare at but never dares to approach, the one people ask you about in that hushed-whisper kinda voice because they’re afraid he’s listening. He’s the guy who waits for you, every day and is never late, always in the same place, same spot he pulled into that morning when he dropped you off, as if he hasn’t moved in an inch since you climbed out of the car and waved goodbye. But you know he has. It’s just that no one seems to want to park their car in his spot and you wonder if it’s because they’re afraid to get too close. See your brother; he’s not much of a people person but it’s something you understand completely, because you know that being raised by a demon hunter doesn’t leave much time for socialising or developing people skills. Too much time communing with guns, knives, cars and one-night stands, too many nights spent remembering your mother’s death because something like that, the loss of childhood will do that to the best of men. And your brother, he’s the best even if he rarely smiles, never looks or acknowledges anyone, just sits there and waits. 

But then you walk out the door, bag slung over your shoulder, a few books under your arm, almost tripping over your own feet because in your haste to see him, make sure that he’s there, that he made it through the day you forget to tie your shoelace. 

And you wait, just a moment on the top step, wait for the moment that you know is coming, the moment he senses you, turns his head in your direction and there it is. That shit-eating grin which seems to envelop his entire face the moment he sees you. When he slams his palm flat against metal and shouts your name, as if it’s the most important sounding word ever to leave his lips. And you think that maybe it is because you’re not like Dean, you don’t remember the night your mother died but Dean does. And you know that beside your dad, you’re all Dean has left. You’re his happiness, his mission, his entire life. You’re his reason to be. 

You run down the steps, shoelace forgotten, almost dropping your books in your haste to reach him. And you smile as you yank open the car door, throw your books into the back seat and flop down in the passenger seat next to him as he slaps a heavy palm against your denim-clad thigh, turns down the volume on the music and guns the engine, hands curled around the steering wheel confidently as he cranks the car into gear. 

And your smile widens because he made it, he’s there just like he’s always there. 

He’s your friend, maybe your entire world because he’s Dean, your brother, which kinda means he’s everything. 

And yeah, you see him every day, which means nothing or should mean nothing, only it does because seeing him every day doesn’t mean he’ll be there every day. And it’s something that you’re constantly aware of because yours is no ordinary life, and Dean? Dean could be gone in an instant and the thought of just one day without your brother… 

But he is your brother and he’s always there. Then one day you knock on the door of the bathroom, just one more bathroom of another, every day cheap-run-down motel. It’s nothing special. And he’s there; he opens the door wearing damp skin and a threadbare towel which barely reaches his thighs. And you notice, maybe for the first time how tanned his skin is, and how the muscles in his upper arm pull tight against that tanned skin when he reaches over to ruffle your hair and how just doing that causes his pectorals to flex and yeah… 

All of a sudden the most important person in the world becomes more than just your brother. 

You stand there for a moment, just rocking back and forth at eye level because even though he may be older than you you’re pretty much the same height and the only thing to separate you other than a few years is mere inches. It’s something you never considered before because it’s something that has always been there, the lack of space, privacy, room to move. It’s something you’ve gotten used to over the years, just as you’d gotten used to throwing your school books into the trunk of his car alongside his weapons before pulling out of another motel behind your dad’s truck. You can’t remember when you stopped travelling in your dad’s truck and made a space for yourself beside Dean in the Impala but you did. Just like he made a space for himself in your bed, slept alongside you, kept you warm and safe, made you laugh when the nightmares came too close or the monsters became too real. 

Space wasn’t something you ever wanted or needed because the lack of it always meant Dean was close, which meant you were safe. It wasn’t something you ever really stopped to think about but now you do because now it has meaning, purpose and consequence and you can comprehend it completely. 

And you swallow past the ache which invades your chest and works its way down over flat abdominal muscles to settle in your groin. 

Dean brushes passed you without a second thought; you don’t count because you’re his little brother. So Dean thinks nothing of dropping his towel to land in a damp heap on the floor while he rummages through his bag for clean clothes, grabbing a pair of jeans, shoving one bare foot into each leg roughly before standing and yanking them up over his hips. Thinks nothing to fastening the first two buttons, just enough to stop the denim riding too low on his hips. 

And that wouldn't be so bad if he wore a shirt. But he rarely does because the afternoon heat can be hard on a guy who has spent the entire night hunting, crouching low among the branches, hidden by foliage as he scopes out his prey. Eyes dead on the target, ears trained to notice the slightest sound... 

But later when it's all over, when he can breathe again, skin clean of blood and sweat and he's sprawled across his bed, hair still wet, skin still damp, grin firmly in place as he tells you about his latest kill, how many lives will now be safe… you realise that the only thing to separate you both is soft denim and a smile. And you wonder just when your brother really did become everything. 

And when he’s not around you can always rely on your father to regale you with tales of his outrageous behaviour. Either this girl or that, another easy lay, the one with red hair framing her pretty face who was making eyes at him in a bar, or some brunette he charmed information out of the day before. Maybe even the blonde who served you breakfast in the diner that morning. Your dad’s always telling you about how much Dean likes girls. You wonder sometimes, why your dad insists on reminding you that Dean is a ladies’ man, wonder if he knows what you’re only just discovering for yourself. But you don’t say anything, just smile and agree that yeah, Dean sure has a way with the ladies... if you can call them that. What you don’t say is that you understand why Dean does what he does, maybe even more than your dad. You understand that Dean’s a trained fighter, more at home on the battlefield than the dating scene, and even if he was you’re never in one place long enough. Dean’s a warrior, trained in weapons and combat; he’s a fight to the death kinda guy because it’s all he knows. Threats and promises to kill, promises he knows he can keep. Anything outside of that, well it’s not something Dean’s comfortable with seeing as how a strong male role model was all he had, no mother to hold him, to teach him. And so light-hearted banter is Dean’s way, one-night stands, a little bit of charm here and there, enough to satisfy, just enough of him, the right side of how much he’s comfortable to give another person because anything else would mean an honest connection, something real, something that involves the emotions which Dean tries so hard to hide. And that’s something Dean doesn’t give to people who don’t know the truth, who aren’t aware that beneath the charm and good looks and smiling exterior beats the heart of a fucked-up freak. 

Which is why it never seemed to matter before, all the women, but now your imagination is running rampant and images of Dean replace the nightmares which used to keep you awake at night. Now you lay staring at the ceiling, listening to your dad’s intermittent sighs, as he sits at the table, turning the pages in his battered old diary, occasionally glancing out the window, while you try to not think about what Dean is doing. And you wait, for the rumble of the Impala’s engine, for the slam of a car door and footsteps, the weight of his body as he settles into bed beside you, skin cold against your back, breath hot against your skin and the cheap smell of perfume which clings to his body and invades your nostrils. But you tell yourself it isn’t real, the evidence of where he’s been, what he’s been doing or who. Because the only thing that’s real, the only thing that matters is Dean and the fact that he’s home, beside you, holding you close as you drift off to sleep. 

You think that maybe you love him, of course you love him, he’s your brother and you love him like a brother, you do, but sometimes you’re afraid because the love you feel for your brother isn’t the same as the love you feel for Dean. And you’re not sure you understand what that means because Dean is your brother, only sometimes you find it hard to remember that fact and it both scares and confuses you. 

You're fifteen, you should be noticing girls but all you can see is Dean. Only you don’t exist unless you’re on a hunt or dad is away and Dean’s in charge or you’re in the throes of another nightmare. Because as long as you’re safe Dean is happy to go about his business, and his business outside of the hunt is something a little brother wouldn’t understand. 

Sometimes you watch him when he thinks you’re not looking, especially those times when he sits by the window of your room, staring out with a faraway look while you just stare at him. And you wonder what he’s thinking, if ever wonders what it would be like, to have a normal life, like you do. But you’re not Dean and you know that Dean doesn’t dream of normal because what Dean has is normal, he’s a good son, a good soldier. Dean doesn’t want things for himself but that doesn’t stop you wanting them for yourself, it doesn’t stop you wanting them for Dean. And you wish that sometimes... 

You sigh, turn away and try not to think about what could have been or what could be because all you have is now and your brother. He occupies so much space in your life that you feel as though you could at any moment lose yourself in him and disappear completely. 

Instead it’s Dean who disappears. Your father has decided that it is no longer appropriate for Dean to share a bed with his teenage brother and so the sleeping arrangements are changed and Dean gets the sofa, when you’re lucky enough to have one. And you miss him, miss his presence, his warmth, the feel of his arm curled around yours in the dark and the hard press of his morning erection in the small of your back before he opens his eyes, curses and slips from the bed thinking you’re still asleep. Now you have to contend yourself with watching him from across the room, listening to him toss and turn and try to get comfortable and you hope it’s because he misses you as much as you miss him. But you doubt it, especially the nights you watch him slip out of your motel room, careful not to break the line of salt, in frayed jeans and scuffed boots, no doubt on his way to another hot date which probably won’t last much longer than it takes for Dean to charm her out of her pants. 

And you try, as your body continues to grow and change and mature to convince yourself that what you feel is a crush, nothing but hero worship. But sometimes, late at night when it’s just the two of you because Dad's away on a hunt and Dean’s asleep in the bed which dad usually occupies, when you climb in beside him and crawl in to his warmth, you know that it’s so much more. 

 

Torture 

 

You’re struggling with what you know is right, you tell yourself that what you’re doing now is the right thing, not just the right thing for you, even though you think it is. But it’s the right thing for Dean, for all of you. And maybe leaving quietly, secretly with the words scrawled on a piece of hotel notepaper was selfish and a little too much like the coward’s way out but you can’t really face another argument with your dad or the look on Dean’s face. And it’s not as if you didn’t want to always go to college someday because you did. You just didn’t want to have to leave. You burrow deeper into the collar of your coat, lean against the window and let the engine of the Greyhound bus lull you to sleep. It takes a while because all you’re used to is the Impala and dad’s truck but mostly the Impala and Dean, who has spent his entire life protecting you. And you know, or you think you know that Dean would want you to be happy, even if he doesn’t understand. And you try to ignore the feeling of betrayal which settles in your gut because leaving, wanting normal doesn’t mean you betrayed Dean, not really. It’s just that Dean doesn’t understand that normal doesn’t always mean being a good soldier and that wanting something different, something safe doesn’t have to mean being disloyal. Maybe you should have tried harder to make him understand, maybe, if things were different. But they’re not and Dean’s miles behind you now, asleep in a motel bed and what lays ahead of you is a different life, a normal life, a life without Dean. 

Because what you feel for Dean isn’t normal and you know it, you think maybe your dad knows it too. You saw it in the look he gave you the day he told Dean it was no longer appropriate to share his brother’s bed. And you saw it every time your dad told you just how much Dean liked girls, redheads brunettes, blondes, didn’t matter as a long as they were female, and available. And you wonder as your eyes drift shut and your mind fights the image of tanned skin, muscular limbs, his muscular limbs and his smile, the sound of his laughter... if that’s the reason you believed dad always preferred Dean. Because Dean was a normal freak, the kind which hunted monsters and demons and always had your dad’s back and not a fucked up freak who wanted to go to school, do his homework or play ball. The kind who spent more time watching his brother, following his movements, hanging off his every word, than protecting him, like you. 

You’re eighteen and you figure all that’s behind you now because now there’s college and girls who aren’t your brother and that’s not only normal but safe. Only you’re still struggling. 

You’re struggling with the concept of niceness and sex. Rationally you know that being nice should lead you toward the promised land of sex. But looking around it seems that the nice guys never get the girl. The concept that girls may actually be attracted to guys who appear to be born flirts, the smartass types who always know what to say and when to say it is not all that hard for you to understand. You know the type, the ones who can get into any girl’s pants with a simple smile. Because you had a brother once. Once there was Dean and he was all that and more, he was everything. 

But you left him behind in your search for normal and yet it seems that no matter how fast you run or how hard you try everything reminds you of him. 

And you wonder if he’s the reason you stopped looking at girls and began noticing boys, well not so much boys as men. Maybe one man in particular, because he reminds you of Dean. 

See there’s this one guy you’re interested in, and yeah, he’s a bit of a smartass and that should have you running in the opposite direction, only it doesn’t and now you’ve made the mistake of making friends with him. You talk after class, bump shoulders as you walk side by side down the hall and lately you’ve been hanging out together, doing things. And you realise that some people just have more than you. More friends, more confidence, more experience, in love as well as in life. But it’s with him that you discover an asset you never realised you had. That asset is you. It’s your smile, and the sound of your laughter, it’s the way you look up through the bangs of dark hair that always fall across your brow. And it’s the thing which you keep hidden in your pants and you’re not talking protection symbols. And now you’re not just bumping shoulders anymore, now you notice more acutely how he leans into you when you’re talking, how he touches you at every opportunity, the way you wanted to touch Dean. The way he throws his arms casually over your shoulder, steps in to your space, so close his breath tickles your ear when he whispers your name. And you like it, it’s different, new and you want more because it means something. It means... you’re not sure if you know what it means, not really, only that it makes you feel things, causes your heart to beat a little faster, your breath to quicken in your throat, it causes you to ache in all the right places, and your erection to brush painfully against your pants. And you wonder if this is how it was for Dean, the mornings you used to lay still, feigning sleep as Dean cursed, eased away from you, his voice ragged, his breath hot against the skin of your back. Because you curse yourself, move away just a fraction and the sound of your voice is familiar, of course it is you hear it every day. But it’s never sounded so... full of want, of need. It’s never sounded like... the way Dean sounded back then. 

It’s then that you notice the way he looks at you, it’s the same way you used to look at Dean and now you recognise instantly what it means and instead of scaring the shit out of you, you figure what the hell, you’re a big boy now and you don’t follow orders. Now you make the decisions for yourself, decide what you want and you think maybe this is what you want... maybe you want this for yourself and maybe it has nothing to do with the fact that, in the right light, with just enough noise to run interference, he reminds you of Dean. 

Which is why when he invites you into his room, his life, you accept and you hope that it means something that you’re moving on, moving forward, getting on with your life but it doesn’t because you’re fooling yourself. And later when you’re sprawled across his bed, together and you’re acutely aware of your near-nakedness and the cleft where his boxer shorts wrap tight between his legs... and that hint of skin, which serves as an invitation. The sound of his voice, whispering your name, urging you on, begging you to touch him and you want to, you really do, but you don’t. You realise, maybe too late that you’re not moving on you’re just moving over. You’re trying so desperately to be normal that you forget for an instant that looking like Dean and sounding like Dean can’t give you the closeness you crave because no matter how hard you try or how much you pretend, with the lights off, in the dark, lips tasting sweat and heat... you can’t replace Dean. No one can replace Dean and this was supposed to be about you, and what you want. It was supposed to be safe but plastering your brother’s image to the back of your eyelids while you fuck some random guy is anything but safe and it isn't anything resembling normal. 

You think that maybe you’re a coward after all but you’re not, you’re just young and alone and missing a vital part of who you are, why you are. The part which makes you whole and it hurts so fuckin’ much that at first you’ll try anything to make the pain go away, even for an instant. But that’s what he used to do, make the pain go away but now there’s no Dean to make it all better. There’s no Dean and Sammy, there’s only Sam and that’s something you figure you’re going to have to get used to. 

And you know, it won’t always be this way and you’re not entirely alone, you have friends, people who care about you and it’s not a total lie, not really. Because Sammy isn’t someone they need to know, Sammy is a chubby twelve year old, Sammy is a kid who used to cry a lot, wanting his mom, the mom he lost, the memory he lost to whatever is out there in the dark. But Sam isn’t Sammy. 

And you’re not afraid of the dark anymore because you know that you’re more than a foot soldier in a war you never even signed up for, which means no more monsters, no more hunting, arguing over orders and no more ultimatums. Sam can sleep closest to the window if he wants because Sam doesn’t need protecting anymore. And that’s why, the very next day you move your bed closer to the door because Sammy was a boy and Sam is a man. A man who, you tell yourself doesn’t need his brother to make it all better because you’re well on your way to having the safe, ordinary life you always wanted. 

 

Salvation 

 

You’ve done a lot of thinking over the past few months on your own, while you’ve been struggling with who you were, who you are, and who you could be. And you’ve realised that leaving home wasn’t such a bad thing, not really. And you’ve come to accept that to live your own life means lying but it doesn’t mean you’re not a real person, it doesn’t mean that all the connections you’ve made, all the friendships aren’t real. It’s just that you’re not Sammy anymore, you’re Sam. And you figure that lying is unavoidable just as hurting Dean was unavoidable however much you tried, wanted to avoid it. Because you’re different, you want different things, which is why you can never go home because Dean wants you back willingly, which is something you know is never likely to happen, it’s as likely as Dad and Dean giving you and your one chance to be normal their blessing. And their blessing is the only thing you ever truly wanted for yourself. It wasn’t just about normal, it wasn’t really about safe, it was about doing what you wanted to do, being who you wanted to be. It wasn’t even about leaving because you could have done all that and still been a part of them, still been a family but your dad could never understand that, to him normal meant different and different meant being vulnerable and vulnerable was something your dad was never going to allow you to be. You were supposed to be a warrior, a soldier, like Dean. And you are, you’re all that and more but you want different things and wanting different things shouldn’t necessarily make you a different person. Only it did, it does. It means you’re selfish, arrogant and self-centred, well at least as far as your dad is concerned it does, and Dean, well Dean just never understood how you could be comfortable, even willing to go it alone if necessary. 

You wish sometimes that you could be more like Dean, more accepting, more able to cope but you can’t. For Dean it is what it is, which means it’s real and that means there’s no escape, nowhere to run because normal is something you can never have so why even bother trying? You can run but you can’t hide, best to just get on with it and play the hand you were dealt. But you’re not Dean and you want normal, you want safe. You want to hide, to run as fast and as far as you can, you want to silence the warrior within which hounds you, which taunts you with the fact that you have the ability to take action. Every time you open a newspaper, flick on the news, every time you hear the whispers among other students, feel the unease whenever something bad happens, or strange occurrences crop up. A missing student, an unexplained death, a family pet found tortured several blocks away, it doesn’t mean anything, it’s not your fight anymore, and yeah, you have the ability to take action, the knowledge, the truth you carry around with you like a chain around your neck. But just because you have the knowledge, the ability doesn’t make it your responsibility. It’s not your fight anymore, which is why you don’t answer his calls. 

It’s why you sit there in the dark, cranking up the volume on your music station, trying to avoid the light that’s constantly flashing on your mobile, illuminating the dark with the caller ID, his name... Dean. Sometimes you want the sound of his voice so much you’re tempted to reach across and flick the button which will open up the connection between you both but you’re afraid. Because re-establishing that connection will make it real, everything you have tried so hard to leave behind, everything you have worked so hard to forget, to escape. 

You think about changing your number but then the calls stop, cease to be and you realise that now, you truly are alone. 

But then you meet your salvation. You’re riding your bicycle around campus one day and there she is. Her name is Jessica and she takes you to places you never imagined, parties you never believed you’d be invited and she introduces you to people, her friends who soon become your friends. And late at night as she lays beneath you, wraps her legs around your waist, cradles you between her thighs, and cries out your name like it’s the most important sounding word to ever leave her lips, you think maybe this is everything. Jess, your girlfriend, your lover, possibly your salvation, and the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen, ever touched. You stay awake some nights just so you can watch her sleep, smile at the way her long-blonde hair fans out against the pillow, the way her body seeks out yours even in sleep and you tell yourself it has nothing to do with the nightmares,or keeping her safe. It’s just that you like to watch her sleep and marvel at the fact that she’s there, and she’s yours and that gives you peace because she believes in you, teaches you to believe in yourself and she’s proud of the person you are now, she’s proud of Sam. 

Jess changes your life, makes your apartment a home, a real home for the first time in your life. Now you sleep in the same bed every night, bathe in the same bathroom every morning, a bathroom filled with all the little things that you never imagined could make you smile. Like the Smurf toothbrush holder, the one Jess bought as a gift for you because she thought your toothbrush looked lonely thrown on the side of the bath, all on its own. Now your bathroom is littered with face creams and perfume instead of grease mixtures, which stink of petroleum and ammonia or old rags used to clean your weapons. Now your bathroom is part of a home instead of the place where you cleaned away the aftermath of a hunt. And candles, it took you a while to get used to the candles all over your bathroom but any confusion as to their necessity soon gave way to wonder the first time you saw Jess, naked in a bath full of bubbles, hair wet, skin damp, her breasts just visible beneath the water and her smile radiant and welcoming in the warm glow of the candlelight. And it wasn’t so hard to swallow past the fear of shedding your clothes and stepping in to a bathtub surrounded by naked flames, but it took you a whole lot longer to escape the vision of Jess, head back, hair wet... surrounded by fire. And if you sleep a little closer to her now, or hold her a little tighter, the way Dean used to hold you; well it’s only because you love the feel of her breath against your skin and the feel of her hand in yours. It has nothing to do with your past or the nightmares which have returned to mock your hard-fought-for peaceful existence. 

And if the nights are long, and in the dark your fear returns you always have the days with Jess to escape all that. You have a home, a real home, a home filled with pictures of the two of you; they’re stuck to the mirrors with little pieces of blue tack, images of you both, smiling and happy. They’re attached to the refrigerator with magnets that resemble cartoon characters, arms wrapped around each other, eyes shining and full of love, a love of life and each other, a love of now. And they’re scattered about your apartment except for the dresser in the main room, there the only photograph to be seen is the one of your mom and dad, smiling, arms wrapped around each, happy. It sits alone, apart from the others, separate from anything else in your life, a piece of your past. Like the photo of Dean you keep close, safe in your wallet, and the weapons you keep hidden in the closet, tucked away behind your many layers of clothes and piles of books. Safe. Where Jess will never see them. 

But the rest of your home is a mixture of both you and Jess; it’s a home that smells of laundry detergent and the breeze blowing in from the open windows. The smell of books, of Black’s Deluxe Law dictionary, Gilbert Law Summaries, LSAT books, pens, pencils, and computer software, the smell of an exciting, new year full of possibilities. The smell of furniture polish, throw rugs, pillows and wood, the bookshelves that you put together, all by yourself. And shampoo, body lotion, Jess’ make-up, your deodorants; the smell of getting ready to go out, meeting friends and the smell of anticipation, of fun and laughter. And when you’re not going out, when you’re curled up together on the sofa, there’s the smell of take-out food left cooling on the coffee table, Mexican food, Chinese, the aroma of coffee wafting in from the kitchen, the smell of late night cramming for that all important exam. 

It’s everything you ever wanted and more, and you’re living it with the most beautiful girl in the world. It’s life, living, it’s Jess showing you that here it is and you can have it, you can have it all. It’s what it means to be normal and it’s all yours. 

But sometimes, when you’re alone and your apartment is quiet, so quiet you can hear every thought as if it’s there, beside you, keeping you company in the dark, you try not to think about how your dad had this once. The beautiful blond-haired girl whom he loved, who loved him, who made his house a home. And you try not to wonder, when you’re dragged from your sleep, sweat coating your brow, heart pounding in your chest, fear chasing dread as you glance over at Jess and reassure yourself she’s only sleeping. You try not to wonder if the nightmare, the vision of Jess, your Jess, plastered to the ceiling, hair fanning out like a halo around her head, eyes filled with fear and pain as the first flames begin to lick at her skin. You try not to wonder if this is how it was for your dad, to have everything taken away, ripped from him when he least expected it, in a way he couldn’t possibly imagine, in a way you couldn’t possibly remember because you were too young to hold on to the memory. 

But now it’s become your nightmare, and it’s becoming more frequent, almost nightly, Jess above you, the taste of her blood as it slowly seeps from her wounds and coats your skin. The pleading look in her eyes seconds before the pain becomes too much, and the flames begin, mocking your feeling of disbelief that this couldn’t possibly be real... 

It’s only a nightmare. But those first few seconds when you wake, when your heart almost stops and you jump up, breathing harsh, ragged and panic-stricken, it is real. But then you see her beside you, sleeping, one arm curled beneath her head, one hand stretched out against your pillow, she’s safe. 

You tell yourself that it's just a nightmare. It isn’t real... 

But it was real once, and you try not to wonder if what you see in your dreams is the last memory your dad has of your mother because for your dad it could never be a dream. It’s a nightmare but one he can never escape, one he has been living for twenty-two years, ever since the night of your six month birthday. The night your mom died, bleeding and in pain, pinned to the ceiling and surrounded by fire. 

But you’re not your dad, no more than you’re Dean. You’re different, you’re normal and it’s just a dream, it is. It’s not real. It can’t be real because that would mean you really are a freak and you can never escape. 

But you did, you have, and Jess is safe and that’s all that matters, you and Jess and now. And nothing can take that or her away from you. 

 

Damage 

 

You hate Halloween, the smell of wood smoke wafting through your neighbourhood, and the countless Jack O’ Lanterns decorating people’s porches, grinning, no leering at you from random windows as you walk home. You watch them as you climb the steps to your apartment, half expecting something to jump out at you, their faces to change, anything to prove that it's not as innocent as it appears. 

Jess laughs when you tell her you don’t much care for Halloween, laughs and tells you not to be so serious. It’s supposed to be fun, and foolish, it’s about pumpkins and cold, crisp air and freedom, the freedom to be whoever you want to be. But you just want to be Sam but you can’t, not tonight because Sam wouldn’t know the things you know. He wouldn’t have to bite his tongue to stop himself from telling Jess, warning her that as innocent as it looks, it isn’t because you know that ‘Old Jack’, well, he’s still out there somewhere, still drifting and wandering. Without a home, not even in Hell. And the Devil, well he can put on any face he wishes, even one that smiles at you as you pass on by. 

Dean wouldn’t laugh, Dean would know, Dean would understand. You remember the night Dean first told you about Old Jack, the night you asked your dad why you couldn’t carve out a pumpkin and put it outside your motel room door. You remember the look on your daddy’s face, the slump to his shoulders and the way he glanced over at Dean as he finished salting the doors and windows before taking up his gun and walking out the door. 

And you remember Dean stroking your hair as he lay beside you, holding you close as he whispered you a bedtime story. The story of Old Jack, the first Jack. How he was sinner, a thief, the sort of person who would steal the clothes from your back, the whisky from your cup. How he’d lie, steal and cheat his way from one town to another, until death visited Jack in the form of the Devil himself, horns on his head, bright yellow eyes and stinking of sulphur. See, the way Dean told it, the Devil figured Jack was a man after his own-black-smoldering heart and it was time for Jack to get his reward. But Jack tricked the Devil, fooled him and in return earned himself the promise of seven more years to change his ways. But once Jack was free he soon returned to his old life, lying, cheating and stealing because seven years wasn’t enough time to even think about repenting, not for a man like Jack. And when his seven years were up Jack just upped and died, right there in a pumpkin patch and the Devil, he remembered how Jack had treated him ill, tricked him and the Devil… Dean’s voice had softened as he’d whispered to you, almost as if he was telling you a secret. Told you that the Devil, he’s not the forgiving type and so he sent Jack on his way, with only a single glowing coal from Hell itself to place in his pumpkin to light the way. And so Jack walked the lonely roads of Hell until he reached the gates of Heaven, where legend has it, they set the dogs on him. You remember laughing when Dean told you that because you never imagined Heaven to have dogs. And the only image you could conjure at the thought was of huge giant Hellhounds, saliva dripping from their giant jaws and pointed teeth, while bright-shiny halos adorned their heads. Dean ruffled your hair, hugged you a little tighter when you told him what you were thinking and you could hear the laughter in his voice seconds before he told you what became of Old Jack. But that moment, the moment his arms tightened around you and you could feel his smile against the back of your neck, the vibration of laughter in his chest, it’s a moment you carried with you for a long, long time, even now. 

It’s a memory that brings you joy, even if it means you know the truth, know what others aren’t privileged or maybe are lucky enough, innocent enough not to know. That Jack is out there somewhere his glowing coal still lighting the way. And with Heaven and Hell both closed to him, Jack returned to your world, shapeless because there was nothing left, no form for him to wander from town to town in, just as he’d always done. Now he’s just a naked flame, a glowing coal from the fires of Hell, a fire that never dies. A fire that wanders the lonely roads, the bogs and marshes, outskirts of random towns and cities luring unsuspecting citizens, a lonely light drifting through the mists of time and space. And you know that to follow that light is suicide because it leads to dangerous places, dark places where normal people have no right to follow, places from where people never return. 

You’re twenty-two years old, older, wiser and it’s been four years since you’ve last seen Dean but you can still remember that night, because you made him laugh. For one single moment you made Dean forget about monsters and Demons and that means more to you than anything. 

You remember all those times Dean was there, holding you, protecting you, keeping you safe. And you wonder about how Dean came about the knowledge, the truth about what’s out there in the dark. And you figure you were lucky because all Dean had was your dad and you’re sure, no positive that your dad told Dean in ways that would brook no doubt, no laughter. Just the bare bones of demons, monsters and what they could do to a person, a young boy, alone and defenceless, maybe he even told Dean about the many victims he’d come across, told him about your mother and how she looked that night. Maybe he even took him out on hunts and told him to wait in the shadows and just watch, maybe even gave him a weapon, like the ‘45’ he gave you when you admitted to being afraid. But you had Dean, and arms to hold you close, bedtime stories that were more than stories but told in such a way that they could still make you laugh. 

You had Dean. 

It’s only recently you began to realise how all your happiest memories revolve around Dean, and it hurts to think that back then he was one of the things you wanted to escape. It’s only now you realise how lucky you were to have had someone like him to filter out the horror and to teach you in ways that weren’t so harsh, weren’t such a punch to the gut, like Dad did with Dean. And you think you understand now, why you fought against him, why you fought against becoming him. But now you know it wasn’t Dean you were running from, it was your dad but Dad was so much a part of Dean’s life, Dean’s security and peace of mind that Dean lost himself and became an extension of your father. You didn’t understand that at first, was only beginning to understand when you left, when you became so afraid of losing yourself in Dean, in the love you had for him, that you had to run, to escape. 

Because you were becoming what your father once was, Dean’s focus, Dean’s duty and so much a part of the family business that you could never be, just Sam. You could never be yourself, a person Dean could love as an equal because you would forever be one more duty that your dad handed down to Dean and took for granted Dean would carry out without question. 

And you wanted more, you wanted Dean to see you, as you saw him, not just as a brother he loved but as Sam, a person, someone Dean could love, freely and not just because he was ordered to but because he wanted to because he couldn’t not. The way you loved, love Dean. 

You think maybe he did but you’re not sure because Dean’s love for you was such a mixture of so many things that you’re not sure where the fear ended, the obligation, the duty and his love for you began. Maybe it was there all the time among the things you were too young to notice. Maybe it was the gleam in Dean’s eye when you came home from school, excited and bouncing about in the passenger seat of the Impala as you told him about your day. Maybe it was his smile, that intent gaze that followed you wherever you went and reminded you that you were never alone. Or maybe it was the joy in his laughter which softened the truth in his eyes when he told you that nothing bad was ever going to happen to you. Or maybe it was the feel of his caress on those long journeys, the way his arm used to snake across the back of your seat to settle against your shoulder, his eyes fixed on the road as he drove straight on through the night. There were all signs of Dean’s love for you but it took Jess for you to understand that, to realise. 

It took loving Jess, wanting to keep her safe, protected. It took the fear of seeing her burn up in your dreams, night after night, the fear which made you hold her tighter, keep her close, to never let her out of your sight for you to realise why Dean kept you so close it was almost suffocating. You used to believe it was because you were all Dean had and in a way it was. But it wasn’t just that, that wasn’t the only reason he became so possessive of you, so afraid of you leaving, of going to away to College, of growing up. He wasn’t afraid of you leaving, just like you’re not afraid of Jess leaving. You’re not afraid of her friends, the things she loves that don’t include you, the places she goes without you by her side because you know, she’ll always come back, she’ll never really leave you because she’ll always come back. But after the nightmares began, and you witnessed her die before your very eyes, felt that initial fear on waking, that pit in your stomach which spread through your entire being and ate away at your heart, you suddenly realised that one day she may not be able to come back, that someone, something could take her away, forever. 

Like the demon took your mother away. 

And you realise that that was Dean’s fear, that’s the reason Dean kept you so close because he was afraid, that one day something would happen and he wouldn’t be there to stop it, to save you. That he wouldn’t be around to prevent something bad happening to you, which meant he’d failed in his duty and because of his failure you’d be lost to him forever. 

But it also means that he loved you so much that just the thought of losing you would destroy him. Just like your mother’s loss destroyed your father, sent him on a quest for revenge, to destroy the evil that took her life, while Dean cleaned up the mess that was your dad and you, well you were left to sort through the pieces of what was left of your brother. And you think that maybe that’s why you could never separate Dean’s love for you from his duty to you; never see just his love because you were too blinded by his pain. You always seemed to be on opposite sides of the room, two people facing each other across a gaping chasm that just kept widening like an abyss. A chasm Dean always seemed to be teetering on the edge of and you, the only thing which prevented him from falling because your nearness always anchored Dean, just as the sound of his voice, the feel of his touch always seemed to keep your nightmares at bay. 

Yeah, you get that now. You understand that Dean’s only function in life is to protect you, to keep you safe. You can’t remember a time when it wasn’t Dean’s job to keep you safe, it had been his duty for as long as you can remember. And you realise now what Dean is and what he isn’t, what he was never allowed to be. He’s John’s second in command, his soldier, never his son, not since he was four years old as he ever been allowed to just be John’s son. Just as he was your brother for all of six months before he was forced into the role of protector, and that’s all he’s ever been allowed to be. The only duty he was assigned, a duty he carried out to perfection but all the other stuff, the smiles, the laughter, the gentle touches, the last cookie... everything, no one told him to do that, no one ordered him to love you but he did because he wanted to and while he never truly understood you, he loved you regardless because you were his Sammy, and he just did. 

It’s only now that you believe you did Dean an injustice by running away, by escaping your father and his quest for revenge by leaving Dean. Because you realise now that Dean is nothing like your father. Your father is all about revenge, harsh realities and the bare truth of what is really out there and how to kill it, no matter the cost. Dean is about understanding what is out there and protecting others from it no matter what it costs him. 

And it’s only now that you realise that your leaving not only cost Dean but it cost you too because leaving may have given you the opportunity to really understand Dean but you lost him in the process. 

You slip Dean’s photograph carefully back into your wallet when you hear Jess call your name, reminding you that you’re going to be late for the party,you sigh unsure as to whether you even want to go anymore. But you have things to celebrate, an awesome LSAT victory, which according to Jess is a big deal, and yeah, it kinda is, it’s everything you ever wanted, beside Dean. But then you smile because you notice her costume, a nurse, a very beautiful nurse, and you can’t think of anything more suitable, it suits her, suits who she is, your salvation, the person who saved you, healed you and brought you back to life. 

And you’re so caught up in just how beautiful she looks that you almost forget to breathe when she asks you why you’re not wearing a costume. But then you laugh, remind her that she knows how you feel about Halloween, and if you don’t tell her that you don’t want to be anyone else, not anymore, you just want to be you. Well then that’s just another secret in a long list of secrets, another unavoidable lie; a lie which has become your life. 

 

Experience 

 

You’ve lost count of the number of times you have dialled his number only to cancel the call before it connects but that’s nothing new, it’s something you do often. Sometimes you just scroll through your phone until you come to his name, just so you can stare at it, reassure yourself that even though you never call, you could because he’s only a phone call away. You want to tell him about your test scores, your interview for Law school, you want to hear him say he’s proud of you, the same way Jess did earlier but mostly you just want to hear his voice. 

You want to know that he’s okay and not just out there somewhere. Because keeping track of strange occurrences, hacking in to police reports whenever you read about something in the paper, or research something on your laptop which seems to miraculously resolve itself only serves to reassure you that Dean is still out there. It doesn’t tell you what you need to know. It doesn’t tell you how Dean is, if he’s still the same person you left behind. And you want to know, need to know if Dean can still drown out the horror, the images, the truth by cranking up the music so loud he doesn’t have to listen. Doesn’t have to see anything but the road ahead of him, feel anything but the vibration of the Impala’s engine thrum beneath his touch as they keep each other company on yet another highway. You want to know if he keeps both hands on the steering wheel now that there’s no one beside him, now that you’re not there beside him. Now that he can’t reach across, eyes fixed on the road ahead as he rests against the shoulder that was always there for him. 

You need to know that he’s more than surviving, trying to be what others want him to be, doing his best to be strong. You want to know that he’s more than just holding it together, too busy shutting out the horror behind the memories while clinging to the belief that she’d want him to be brave. You want to know if he misses you as much as you miss him, needs you as much as you need him. You need to know that he still loves you as much as you now know he did. And if you can still make him smile, still make him forget about monsters and demons because without that all Dean has is monsters and demons. 

You want to hear Dean laugh, even if it’s only to reassure yourself that he remembers how. You want to see him smile and know, to reassure yourself that life for Dean is more than revenge. That it’s making the most of what you have left, that it’s clinging to what life couldn’t take from you, acknowledging the grief while still being able to love. 

You need to know that he’s still Dean. 

And you want to tell him that you understand, that you care, that you love him, not just your brother but him, Dean. But love is something you never talk about with anyone but Jess, and it’s kinda hard to give someone a slap on the back, a nudge of the shoulder, a punch to the arm or any other manly display of affection over a phone line. And you figure there’s not much point in trying to express anything resembling a chick-flick-moment with Dean if you’re not actually there to witness him roll his eyes at you, duck his head and rub the back of his neck or anything else which used to serve as a warning that you were entering enemy territory. But the real fear is, it’s been four years, four years of silence on both your parts and you’re not sure you could take the rejection if he hung up on you. So you just lay there in the dark, listening to Jess sleeping soundly beside you as you fight sleep and the nightmares which are just waiting for you to give in, and then you hear it... 

And you know exactly what it is, breaking glass, and you know exactly from which room it came from because it’s the one window in the house you could never fully secure. You performed the ritualistic house blessing before you moved in to your apartment, said all the formulaic words and phrases in the correct intonations and everything, repeated them several times after Jess moved in and you had to remove the salt from the windows. But you could never secure that window, well not from your everyday thief or burglar due to the rotten wood that surrounded the frame. But you always made sure there were glass objects adorning the sill, and a collection of glass paperweights always seem much easier to explain than an obsession with salt. So you’re pretty sure that whoever just violated your safety zone isn’t evil, or is human at least. 

And you’re pretty sure, as you slip quietly from your bed, all senses on alert, feet firmly on the floor, braced for attack, ready for whatever is out there... yeah, you’re sure that you can handle an opportunist thief. 

What you’re not sure about, as you taste the sweat already beading on your top lip, feel the bruises already forming from where your shoulder hit the doorframe and your back hit the floor. 

What you know you’re not ready for is Dean. 

You’ve spent four years trying to exorcise Dean from your life, stripping away parts of yourself, removing who you were, just so you could sleep through the night without the reminder of what you had lost. And suddenly there he is, above you, his weight crushing the air from your lungs as he grins down at you. It’s a familiar grin; only different somehow, now it looks almost as if it’s out of place, almost as if it’s something Dean hasn’t done in a while. 

But his voice is more than familiar, it’s ragged, his breath hot against your face, and okay so you’ve both just almost beat each other into the floor but it’s more than that it’s... it’s telling you things that Dean never could, never did. And the way his body leans into yours as he stares down at you, it just fits and feels more than familiar, it feels right and that’s when you panic, reach for his hand, the one he is using to keep you pinned beneath him and twist until you’re bearing down on him. He’s heavier, more muscled than you remember and the look in his eyes as he stares up at you seems to sit a little uncomfortably on his face, like it’s something he’s trying to pull from somewhere, someplace he’d lost. 

But then he smiles, shifts a little closer seconds before he warns you to get off of him and suddenly he’s all Dean. And he’s there using your body to pull himself up from the floor and you’re so glad you never thought to turn on the light as you cling to the darkness around you, use it as a shield as you fight the desperate need to pull him close and just breathe in the scent of gun smoke and leather which surrounds him. 

It’s Dean, older, stronger but still Dean, which means... 

You jump as Jess flicks on the light, feel Dean tense beside you before he slips back into the role you’re so familiar with, shallow, devil-may-care, good old disreputable Dean, only now you know, it’s everything he’s not. You watch as he flirts with Jessica, and while there’s a part of you that’s screaming for Dean to leave, to not taint what is yours with the ugliness which you know must have drove him here, because you’re sure he’s not just here to catch up on old times. There’s a part of you that wants to shake him so hard you can feel his bones rattle, just to get an honest reaction from him, instead of this, what you’re witnessing. Because already it’s apparent, that after all this time, Dean is still hiding behind the sarcasm and charm, only now he’s hiding from you too. 

You want to get Jess out of there, as far away from Dean and the family business as possible but instead you cling to her, keep her close by your side.She’s your safety net for when it all comes crashing down, everything you fought so hard to build. But already you want to take back the words, the insistence that anything Dean has to say he can say in front of Jess. Because now you’re terrified of just what it is Dean is about to say. 

And you’re disappointed when he says it. Yeah, it’s your dad and that part of you which is screaming, screams just that little bit louder as fear grips your heart and robs you of your breath. You tell yourself that he’s okay; taking a few days out because it’s not like he hasn’t done this before,disappeared that is. And you’re surprised to hear the words leave your mouth because you weren’t sure you could speak past the fear that’s building in your gut and warring with the disappointment that Dean isn’t here of his own accord. 

Disappointment wins because he’s not here for you; he’s here for your help because he wants you back, back on the road, back on the hunt, back in the family business and for what, why? 

Dad is missing. You’ve haven’t been home in four years and not so much as a phone call but your dad, he’s missing a few days and it’s enough for Dean to come here, break into your home and expect you to hit the road with him, to demand you fall in line. And fuck that hurts. After everything you have achieved, everything you have overcome. After you swore you were done hunting, for good. 

And you are, which is why you tell Dean he doesn’t need you, remind him that he can do this alone and that’s when he tells you, that he doesn’t want to. And that’s all it takes for you to fall in line but it’s not for your dad, it’s not for the family business and it’s anything but revenge. It’s because Dean doesn’t want things for himself but he wants this, he wants you, and that’s enough for now. It’s enough for you to retrieve a few weapons from their hiding place, pack a bag and reassure Jess that you’ll be back in time for the interview on Monday. You kiss her goodbye, your attention already elsewhere and you’re out the door without even waiting for her to finish what she is saying, without even realising how little it took in the way of persuasion. You overlook the condescending way in which Dean spoke the words Law School, swallow past the disappointment, the lack of pride in his voice, you ignore the certainty that was there in his tone when he told you that you should be afraid of the dark. And you cling to the pride that was evident in his voice when you bested him, pinned him to the floor, and the smile on his face when you recognised the EVP on Dean’s voicemail. And you have to admit that Dean was right, it is kinda like riding a bike. 

Before you know it, you’re throwing your laptop case on the back seat of the Impala, as you flop down in the passenger seat next to Dean. You don’t even flinch when he slaps a heavy palm against your denim-clad thigh, turns up the volume on the music and guns the engine, hands curled around the steering wheel confidently as he cranks the car into gear. But you tense, just a little as he shifts beside you, stretches his arm across the back of your seat until it settles against your shoulder. You turn slightly, glance in his direction and notice that his eyes are fixed on the road ahead, nothing to acknowledge the movement as he drives straight on into the night. 

And yeah, it’s very much like riding a bike or digging up someone’s grave because it’s uncomfortably comfortable. 

Dean’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music and you realise that nothing much has changed, except you but then you notice the lack of accompaniment to the music and it takes mere seconds for you to realise what it is that’s missing. It’s the sound of Dean’s voice, the way he used to sing along to the chorus of whatever song was playing and whatever disappointment you felt earlier is stomped beneath the weight of guilt which seems to make itself at home in the car, almost like a third passenger. 

You want to say that you’re sorry for leaving; only you’re not. But you are sorry that you’re leaving hurt Dean, and it’s funny but you never stopped to realise how your actions would affect Dean, you expected his anger, you even imagined the rejection that leaving may have caused but you never considered there’d be hurt because Dean was invulnerable. Or you used to believe so, now you’re not so sure because you’ve had four years to reconsider everything Dean appears to be, which you’re pretty sure is the exact opposite of who he truly is. 

You think back to earlier when he told you he didn’t want to do this alone and it takes you a moment to separate the actual words from everything else. The way he wouldn’t look at you as he spoke, the way he swallowed and glanced away, shifted only to look down at his feet, anywhere but at you, almost as if he were afraid to reveal too much. You want to kick yourself because you were so wrapped up in hearing those words that you failed to notice what Dean wasn’t telling you, that it had nothing to do with the fact that he didn’t want to do this alone. He wasn’t telling you that he wanted you by his side, he was telling you that he needed you by his side. Only Dean would never say that, not with words anyway. 

You want to say you’re sorry but you don’t, instead you fall back against old routines and the familiar habit of reading through the missing person reports as Dean keeps his eyes on the road. You check for common denominators, patterns between the victims which Dean may have missed and you smile, wait for Dean to call you a control freak, only he doesn’t. He just carries on driving, hardly says a word between now and Jericho but his arm never moves from the back of your seat and you’re grateful for that at least. 

And it doesn’t take long before you’re teasing each other again about certain musical tastes, credit card scams, bickering over each other’s methods and the occasional slap here and there. And before you know it you’re smiling, enjoying yourself, enjoying just being around Dean, despite everything. Until by chance you track down where your dad has been staying and suddenly you’re stepping over lines of salt and standing in a room which is nothing like home. 

Home means photographs of you and Jess, snapshots of memories, moments, places, the picture of Dean you keep hidden in your wallet, and you try and hold on to that as the faces of numerous victims stare back at you from the walls of your dad’s room. But the only trace of your dad is a half-eaten cheeseburger and the handwriting scrawled across the notes pinned here, there and well... everywhere. 

Jess leaves you notes, notes which say ‘I love you’, or ‘Sam buy milk’, one that even said, ’Meet me in the shower, come naked’, nothing like what you are seeing now. Dad’s notes say, ‘devils and demons’, ‘witches’, and ‘missing’, and you want to run but already everything is falling into place, beginning to make sense. Because there’s a part of you that understands the meaning behind it all, of what you’re hunting and why it’s here. Only you wish it didn’t but experience has proved to be a valuable teacher. 

And that’s when you see it, the photograph your dad has tacked to the only mirror in the room, one you weren’t aware he’d even kept. It’s a photograph of the three of you, it’s you and Dad and Dean, only you were younger then, smiling, together and for a moment it seems out of place among the horror only it’s not because it’s more than a photograph. It’s a memory, one your dad takes with him, it’s the three of you together, smiling, it’s the reason you’ve carried the photograph of Dean in your wallet for four long years, it’s the place you call home. 

But it’s a home you can never return to, not now, not after everything and you know that better than anyone because you’ve been trying for four years. Trying to pick up the phone, make the call, open the connection but you couldn’t. Because some things are too painful to look back on, and it’s not just your pain but the pain you caused your family. But you’re not alone in that because sometimes people do things, lash out for whatever reason, out of fear, loss, grief, sometimes you just want others to hurt as much as you’re hurting, to share the pain so that you feel less alone in the world. And other times it’s because you just want something for yourself, to grab for what is out there, to connect with people in the hope that you’ll feel like less of an outsider, less of a freak. There’s always a reason, and sometimes you’re so wrapped up in whatever emotion is driving you that you forget that others are hurting too. You don’t stop to realise what you are doing to those around you, you just react and then it’s too late. It’s too late to say you’re sorry, it’s too late to make amends and it’s too hard to turn back and witness the destruction your own pain caused to those around you. And that’s when you realise, that you can never go home. 

Just as Constance Welsh can never go home and you know why, know that it is more than grief at the loss of her children, more than the hurt caused by the actions of her husband. It’s because she can never go back, is afraid to face what she has done; you understand that, know that she can never truly rest with the guilt that is eating away at her spirit. And you know all about guilt, know all about being afraid to face up to the pain that you have caused. And you understand betrayal, however fucked up it may be because however much you don’t want to feel it, sometimes have no right to feel it... you still do. You know how it feels to lay awake night after night, alone in your bed, unable to sleep because something is missing or someone. And you understand completely, the torment of not knowing where they are, who they’re with or when they will be home. So you lay awake listening for the sound of a car engine, a key in the lock and you try not to imagine what they’re doing or who they’re doing it with but you can’t stop the images which invade your peace and shatter your soul. You can’t sleep until they’re home, back where they belong, beside you but even then there is no real peace. You’re thankful that they’re there, that you can feel the weight of their body as it presses against yours, feel the warmth of their breath as it prickles against your skin. But you can also smell the cheap perfume, which clings to their body, tormenting you with its nearness and breathing life into the images you fought so hard against. And you wonder if this is what betrayal tastes like? 

And that’s why you push, you don’t want to hurt her loved ones anymore than you have to, you don’t want to pick at the scabs of wounds that are still healing, may never truly heal. But you know the truth and you know that deep down Constance’s husband knows it too, and you can understand not wanting to live in a house where his children died, where his children were murdered, a house that was once filled with their laughter and the warmth of family, a family he couldn’t save, the children he failed to protect. Guilt is a hard taskmaster, one that you can never escape no matter how hard you try or how far you run. It’s just one of the things you learned from your dad, what grief can do to a person and how guilt can change the course of their life, cause them to do all manner of things they never imagined they were capable of. And it’s something you’ve learned for yourself, something you have lived with for almost four years, guilt because you couldn’t ever go home and face your family, face your dad and Dean and admit that while leaving was the only option left available to you, and that you don’t regret it, you are sorry for what it did to them, to you as a family, that it caused them pain. 

And sometimes, even though you run from it, knowing the truth, having the knowledge and the ability to take action does make it your responsibility. You have a responsibility to Constance’s spirit, it’s up to you to stop this and you have a chance to make amends with Dean before it is too late. So for once you turn a blind eye to the legalities of making a fake emergency call as you dial the number which will give Dean the time and the distraction to escape his arrest. You should have done it sooner; as soon as he tipped you off that the cops had followed your trail of fake ID cards but you had to be sure, had to talk to Joseph Welch first and now that you have you’re pretty sure you know what it is you have to do. You don’t have the time to think about anything else, why your dad left Jericho, where the coordinates he left behind will lead you because she’s there, Constance, she’s waiting for you to take her home. 

But you can’t because you know it’s something she has to do for herself, she has to face the fear, the uncertainty, to reconcile herself with the guilt and face the consequences her actions caused to the balance of this world before she can move on. And you know that until she does she will never be able to be at peace with herself, will always be wandering. She has to be able to look into the faces of those she hurt, accept the truth for what it is and move on. But she can’t because the pain is too real, too great for her to accept, even after death, and you know that it will never stop, never be over for her. And she wants it to be over, wants to be free of it, which is why she does what she does because she can’t ever be free of the burden of pain, of guilt no matter how many unsuspecting victims she pours it into. No matter how many times she tries to displace it, deny that it’s her pain to feel, her guilt to carry. And she’ll keep on trying, luring more and more people to this place, more and more witnesses to her suffering but they’ll never be able to take it from her or relieve her of it. And you know that the more energy she uses in trying to run from it, the more difficult it will be for her to face it. The excruciating pain of being wrenched from her family, of being alone and apart from those she loved. 

Of being separated from the one thing she thinks of as home. 

You watch as she tears her gaze away from the photograph of the three of them together, Constance and her children, a photograph taken during happier times before the betrayal, the pain, which caused their separation. You see it for yourself as she looks at you, it’s everything she’s been running from, her love of what once was, before it all began tumbling down around her, her fear that she can never be forgiven for tearing it all down, and the guilt that is hers to carry, hers to face. 

And her anger, the way she looks at you because you know her weakness. It’s not the loss; it’s not even the separation. It’s that it’s all her fault. She did this, caused this, through fear, and through betrayal because she was afraid and alone and she could no longer turn to the one person she relied on to share that with because he betrayed her, left her alone. And you understand how that must have hurt, to have had everything she ever wanted, a husband, children, fun and laughter, the love and warmth that constitutes a family and to have that taken away. You understand the hurt,the uncertainty, the loss of love, of someone to turn to; the fear that’s it all gone and things will never be the same. That it’s all just suddenly over and all that’s left is fear, fear of the future, of what happens now, and not just fear for herself but for her children, their future, their happiness now that everything she once believed was hers to cherish is gone. And you understand that in her grief she lashed out at the one thing she truly loved. Destroyed what they had, what they could have had and lost them in the process abandoned them, left them behind to become just another memory that was too painful to face. Until all that was left for her was pain and a need to seek out the source of it. To destroy those she believed were unfaithful, who were the cause of her separation, and those she believed destroyed the happiness of others as hers was once destroyed in an effort to escape the suffering of being alone. 

And you forced her to face that, forced her to return home and see that for herself because it was the only way to give her peace. 

You took her back, to the children she loved, the children she lost, the one thing she was afraid to face, the root of her fear and the cause of her guilt. You returned her to her family. You took her home. 

And you watch as she turns to face them, her children and the family she abandoned in her quest for revenge, to hurt those she believed hurt her. And you listen to her scream as she comes face to face with the truth, see the way her children cling to her until it’s hard to discern where one entity begins and another ends. Watch as they each become an extension of the other, a tangled mass of pain and suffering each needing the other, each needing something to ease the suffering until all three are swallowed by the writhing mass of agony of what was once a family. 

Of course you found her weak spot, it’s what you do, who you are and nothing can change that, and running away, hiding it doesn’t change anything. Dean was right; you can pretend all you want but sooner or later we all have to face up to who we are. And you’re a freak; you’re Sammy, the same Sammy who was given a ‘45’ when he admitted to being afraid. Sammy who should be afraid because he knows the truth of what’s out there and how to kill it. Because you are what you were raised to be, you’re a warrior but that’s just what you are, not who you are, because you’re also Sam. 

You have plans, hopes and dreams for the future because you had Dean there to always remind you that life is about more than what we lose. Dean who taught you that life isn't about revenge and that no matter how much you hurt and want to lash out at those who hurt you in return, it won't change anything. Dean who filtered out the horror and took time out from the violence and mayhem which had become his life to teach you to catch a ball, who sheltered you from the harsh realities of the world and taught you how to laugh. Who carved a smile into your first Jack O’ Lantern, the one you were never meant to have, Dean, who taught you how to make the most of life no matter what it threw at you. Who taught you how to love. And you have Jess who showed you what it means to love, taught you, showed you that it was normal to want, to need another person, to not be afraid to reach out, to touch, taste and explore all that love has to offer. The way you never could, never dared with Dean and you’re not sure you could walk away from that even if you wanted to. 

But even as Dean speaks the words, tells you that he’ll take you home you know, that you’ll never be more at home than you are now, here beside Dean. That you’ll never be more content or more at peace than when you feel the weight of Dean’s palm settle against your shoulder. Darkness all around you and the feel of the Impala’s engine as you keep each other company on another lonely highway. Because Dean is home, has always been home because it’s always been Dean. 

And you understand now what Constance meant when you told her that she couldn’t kill you because you weren’t unfaithful; you never have. You understand completely what she meant when she told you you will be. Because it was all a lie, just like the last four years have been a lie. But you can’t walk away now, and you can’t tell Jess the truth about yourself, that you’re more than Sam, not now but you can’t give up Dean, not again, not ever. 

And maybe you can have both, maybe you can have a touch of normal and still have Dean because as much as you love Jess, you need Dean and he’s right, you did make a hell of a team back there. You always did. And you feel the loss the instant he drops you off at your apartment, leans across to glance up at you through the Impala’s window, his arm resting against the empty passenger seat, your seat... 

You’re tempted to just throw your bag in the back, jump back in alongside him and lean back against the weight of Dean’s arm, tell him to just drive but you can’t so instead you watch as he pulls away and hope that it’s not forever this time. 

You smile when you see the note telling you that Jess missed you that she loves you, and the smile widens as you reach for the cookie beneath it because it’s only now you realise how Dean is as much a part of your home as Jess is. You remember telling her not long after you met how you always get the extra cookie. It was a joke at first, an attempt at teasing, something Dean used to do with you when you were younger. And you remember telling her as she held the last cookie at arm’s reach, laughed and pretended to bite into it, that if she loved you she’d share. 

And you remember her smile when she handed it to you and you broke it in two and handed her the other half, like you used to with Dean. 

You drop your rucksack on the floor as you walk into the bedroom, hear the shower running and for a moment you’re almost tempted to shed your clothes and step into the warmth of the hot spray, the comfort of Jess’ arms. But it’s been a long few days and you’re tired, you flop back against the pillows, still fully clothed already missing the sound of Dean’s voice, the familiar rhythm of his breathing as he sleeps beside you. And you tell yourself that the tiredness is because you just find it difficult to sleep in an unfamiliar bed now, and it has nothing to do with the fact that you spent the best part of three days awake just watching Dean as he slept just mere feet away from you. Afraid to close your eyes in case you woke to find him gone. 

You close your eyes now; listen to the sound of the water in the bathroom and you can almost picture Jess above you, leaning over you as you feel the first droplet of water drip down on to your forehead. You picture her skin, imagine her naked and still damp from her shower, hair wet as she looks down at you, you open your eyes already picturing the way she’s smiling, only she’s not smiling and it’s not water, it’s blood, Jess’ blood. 

You don’t remember falling asleep but you must have because this is a nightmare, this is the nightmare, the one that has haunted you for weeks, save for when you were in Jericho with Dean. It’s Jess plastered to the ceiling, hair fanning out like a halo around her head, eyes filled with fear and pain as the first flames begin to lick at her skin. Jess above you, the taste of her blood as it slowly seeps from her wounds and coats your skin. The pleading look in her eyes seconds before the pain becomes too much, and the flames begin, mocking your feeling of disbelief that this couldn’t possibly be real... 

Only it is. It’s real and it’s happening. It’s happening to Jess, now. Right now. 

There’s screaming, it’s you. You’re screaming and she doesn’t make a sound. There’s nothing you can do because the heat is unbearable and she doesn’t make a sound as you cry out her name, arms above your head, shielding your face from the heat and the horror as the flames fan out toward you. 

She’s just there, above you bleeding, arms outstretched, as the blood soaks into her nightgown, the white one you bought her for her birthday only now it’s red and still she doesn’t make a sound. She just looks at you, eyes filled with pain, and she just looks at you. 

You can feel the heat from the flames, hear the roar as they intensify, engulfing the entire room and then there’s arms about you, someone pulling you away, away from Jess, from this. Familiar arms, a familiar voice shouting at you, telling you that you have to get out, you have to move but you can’t. 

You don’t remember how you came to be outside; you just remember his voice, the panic and fear as he pushed and pulled, fought with you as you tried to break free of his hold. But he wouldn’t let go, you think you may have hit him as you struggled to get back to her, to Jess but still he wouldn’t let go. You just remember the sound of his voice, the fear and the panic in his words, familiar words, words you think you’ve heard before somewhere, at some point. 

It’s okay Sammy. 

The same words over and over. Dean calling you Sammy, Dean telling you it was okay, that it was gonna be okay. But how can it be okay? How can anything ever be okay now? You should never have left her alone, not for a second. You should have told her the truth, warned her, you should have done something. 

You should have saved her. 

You should never have tried to fool yourself that you could ever have normal because this... whatever it is... 

Normal was something that happened for other people, not freaks. Normal was John and Mary, four year old Dean and baby Sammy. Normal was that small window of happiness that comes along once in a lifetime only to be ripped from your arms and pinned to a ceiling. Blood and pain, fear and torment. Normal is everything you want, and everything you can never have. Normal is watching your future go up in flames, burn up before your very eyes while you scream and she doesn’t make a sound. 

Normal is something you can never understand unless you experience it and this, everything that has happened tonight, this is normal, this is normal for Sam, normal for you. 

And you should have warned her. 

Because you aren’t normal, you’re one of them. You’re a Winchester and if you once believed you could be something else, well then maybe you’d been lying to more than Jess, maybe you’d spent the past four years lying to yourself. 

Because as much as it wasn’t your fight, isn’t your fight, it is. It is now; maybe it always has been only now it’s about more than the mother you never knew. It’s more than your father’s need for revenge, to hunt down the thing that killed her, that took her away from him. It’s about Jess, your salvation, your one slice of normal, your small window of happiness... It’s Jess, your Jess, the lover you will never hold again. 

And it’s Dean, pulling you back from the flames, whispering to you, telling you it’s gonna be okay. It’s your brother who became the soldier, the four year old forced into the role of protector. Dean, who kept you warm and safe, made you laugh when the nightmares came too close or the monsters became too real. 

You ram the bullets into the barrel of Dean’s shotgun; listen as they slide into place, hear the thud as the gun lands in the trunk of the Impala alongside the rest of Dean’s weapons. The knives, crossbows, crucifixes and grenades, Holy Water, and even the odd stake just in case... 

It’s about this. 

 

Love 

 

If it weren’t for pictures I wouldn’t even know what mom looks like. What difference does it make? Even if we do find the thing that killed her... mom’s gone and she isn’t coming back 

You should have told her, you should have told her everything. You should have told Jessica the truth. Only now it’s too late, it’s too late to go back and you’re not sure if you can take another step forward. It’s just too late... and all that’s left is anger, guilt and a whole bunch of police and forensic reports. Pieces of paper which discuss burn marks and fire forensics, people in suits sifting through the debris of your life, scraping pieces of vaporised skin from the ceiling and placing it in bags labelled ‘Origin and Cause’. And you want to scream, you want hit out at their words and pound them into nothing, something... anything other than ‘liquefied body fat’, ‘subcutaneous layers of clothing’, ‘wick effect’. You want to hurl their words across the room, throw them back, tell them to get out because they’re strangers, they didn’t know Jess, never saw her smile, heard her laugh. To them she’s not even a name; she’s a victim, the deceased. Her life, her death and everything in-between, all the little things, the special qualities which made her unique are just something to examine, sift through and finally place in small sterile bags labelled evidence. And you want to scream; you want to reach out, snatch it all from them and throw it in their systematic faces... and scream. 

You want to shout, yell, to rant and rave at them, and remind them that her name is Jessica. 

But you can’t scream because your throat is raw from doing nothing but and you’re so tired of fighting. From trying to break free of Dean’s hold on you, trying to push passed him, kicking and punching. Screaming at him and finally begging him to let you go as he holds you tight against his chest, his arms pinning you in a vice-like grip as you kick and scream and beg to be let go. 

But he refuses, tells you he won’t, he can’t, not this time. Not ever again. 

You can’t scream, not anymore. You can’t do anything as your stomach heaves, your legs buckle and the entire street spins away. The people the faces, the sirens, everything until there’s nothing but Dean’s arms reaching out for you, holding you close, your words muffled, lost among the folds of Dean’s shirt. 

Her name is Jessica. 

You should have known it wouldn’t be that easy to walk away, to have normal. Four years, that’s all you had. Four years before it was all snatched away from you and now you’re left with this... the feeling that it was never yours to reach for, was never yours to have. But you wanted it, you wanted it so bad that you never stopped to consider what it would do to Jess, you never thought for a second that it would follow you, find you... 

But it did and now she’s gone. 

Everything has just gone. The photographs, the way she smiled, the sound of her laughter and the feel of her arms around you, holding you close. You want her back, so much. You want all things that you’d come to know as home. You want to wake up in the morning, shift and feel her warmth still clinging to the bedclothes, reach for her pillow and breathe in her perfume. You want to stretch, reach your arms above your head and feel your foot snag against her underwear, groan as images from the previous night cause your morning erection to twitch expectantly. You want to hear the shower running, catch the scent of fresh coffee as you pull back the bedclothes, and see her smile invitingly as you push open the bathroom door... 

You want to see her frown, see the small creases which gather around her bottom lip as she shoves your books away from the breakfast table. Hear the snap as she closes your laptop disapprovingly and hands you a piece of toast, ruffles your hair and warns you to eat it while it’s still hot. You want to watch her over the rim of your coffee cup as she gathers up her books, her hair falling across her face as she reaches behind the sofa for the book she was reading the night before only to straighten and throw a stray pair of dirty socks at your head. You want to grin back at her as her frown of disapproval breaks into a playful smile. 

You want her back. 

And once again you want to apologise to Dean because you think that maybe you’re a step closer to understanding now, why Dean was so angry with you that night in Jericho. When you peeled back the bandages to reveal his wounds, rubbed salt into his greatest fear, the fear of letting them go and maybe forgetting what it was like to hold them, to have them hold you. You understand the look of pain on his face which mirrored the pain you felt as the cold metal of the bridge’s framework dug hard into your back. Understand now that the worst agony, even worse than grief comes when you realise that what you want more than anything is the one thing you can no longer have. To be in the darkest place you’ve ever experienced in your life and to be told that the only light is the one you will never see. 

Because you never go home. 

You never even tried to understand before, never thought to consider what it must have been like to have lost Mom, to have had somewhere to return home to, someone to return home to. But you think that maybe now... Maybe now you understand why Dean’s wounds are still so painful. Why you couldn’t meet his eyes that night, couldn’t face the raw grief reflected there. But you do now, you understand his pain and his anger, everything. You’d never known what it was like until Jessica, what it meant to have a home. To fall asleep to the feel of her kiss still warming your cheek, her hair as it brushed against your skin. And her smile, to close your eyes to the memory of its warmth as you drifted off to sleep knowing it was the first thing you’d see when you opened them again. Her face, her smile...

And you want that back more than anything, every single day of those four years, you want back. Just as Dean wants the time back, his four years with Mom; his four years of normal before it was all wrenched away. You understand now, that wanting them back means you remember what it means to love them, to have them in your life... 

But Mom's gone and she isn’t coming back. Jessica isn’t coming back. But knowing that doesn’t stop you wanting... wishing for a future which brings with it that one day, when you turn around and there’ll they’ll be... waiting for you and smiling. 

Or breaking into your apartment in the middle of the night, slamming you into the wall, pinning you to the floor and grinning down at you... 

But you’ll never see them smile again, not now, not ever. Not even in your dreams. Now you just see flames, taste their fear, their pain... her pain. And you try not to wonder how long... How long had she been up there, staring down at your bed, waiting for you to return, wondering what... why... how...? 

Three days you’d been gone, three days searching for your dad, hunting with Dean and all the time she’d been alone, scared, bleeding and alone. Had she been there since you’d left? No she couldn’t possibly... because the cookies were still warm, and how fucked up is that? Jessica is dead, already you’re forgetting the sound of her voice, listening to the voicemail she left you in Jericho, urging you to come home, whispering her love for you over and over again as you repeatedly play the message just so you can remember, recall the sound of her voice. But you can remember that the cookies were still warm... 

But it means something. It means someone was watching, watching her, watching you, watching and waiting for the right time, the moment, for your key to turn in the lock... 

Watching as she penned the words... Missed you! Love You! 

Watching, waiting... just as you can feel Dean watching you from across the room but you can’t look at him, instead you just lay there, on your bed, arms behind your head as you force yourself to stare up at the ceiling just to prove to yourself that you still can. Just to prove that you can still close your eyes and sleep without the fear of seeing her there, above you, her eyes pleading with you in the silence to help her. Prove to yourself that you can sleep without hearing her words follow you down in to the darkness... 

Why Sam, why? 

You don’t have the answer, not anymore. You wanted normal. Wanted safe, something other than the life you had, you wanted something more. But all that sounds petty and kinda selfish considering the cost. You wanted to prove you were more than a freak; you wanted to be something other than a hunter, you wanted a life that was yours and not a war which you were forced to fight. You wanted to experience things outside of death and darkness; you wanted to look forward instead of back. You wanted to be someone other than your dad. 

And you wanted to be able to look at your brother’s face and not feel the agony of want twist in your gut. You wanted to tell Dean the truth, the reason you couldn’t stay, couldn’t settle for being his Sammy. But you couldn’t, no more than you could tell Jessica the truth. That you could never be simply Sam. 

And now it’s too late. 

But it’s not too late to admit the truth to yourself, to admit that the only normality you ever knew was when it was just you and Dean, when your dad was away on a hunt and it was just the two of you. The teasing, the laughter, the ease with which you could make Dean smile, as if he didn’t have a care in the world because the world consisted of nothing but a cheap motel room and the two of you. To admit that you’d never felt more at home than the day you decided to throw your meagre belongings into the Impala instead of Dad’s truck, Dean’s raised eyebrow and knowing grin as you slid in beside him without a word. Never felt more content than when you could feel the weight of Dean’s arm snake across the back of your seat, brush against the bare skin at the nape of your neck before settling against your shoulder. Never felt more at peace than when you could feel Dean’s weight settle against you during the night, one arm curling around your chest to pull you in to his warmth, his breath hot against your skin as you drifted off to sleep. 

Never felt more loved than when you’d wake in the night, hair damp with sweat, breathing harsh, and heart pounding in your chest as you tried to escape the images with chased you from your sleep. 

You can’t remember when the nightmares started, can’t even remember what they were about at first, it was just a feeling, of fear and loss and being torn away from something, someone and screaming, you remember screaming. And a voice whispering to you, a familiar voice but you could never recall the words, only that you felt safe again, and loved. And as you grew older and the world became more than sights and sounds, became faces and people and your fears became more than a feeling and the images took shape, they were always of Dean. Over and over, night after night, images of being ripped away from him, of being held tight while you screamed and reached out for him but he was always too far away, always just out of reach. Until there was nothing, just an empty Dean-shaped space that could never be filled and darkness that gave way to a voice, his voice whispering to you over and over as he held you tight against him. 

It’s gonna be okay, Sammy. 

And it was because you never felt more normal than when you were safe, with Dean. When you’d wake up every morning and still feel his warmth clinging to the sheets. When you’d bury your face in his pillow and just breathe in the fresh smell of shampoo, fresh sweat and the faint traces of gun smoke. 

Never felt more alive than when he’d open the bathroom door wearing nothing but damp skin and a threadbare towel which barely reached his thighs. 

But you’re not fifteen anymore and you can’t pretend that what you felt back then, what you feel now is a crush. You’ve had four years to come to terms with how you feel about Dean, four years to grow and become your own person. Four years since you ran away to college, ran away from Dean, your dad’s words, the anger in his voice as he ordered you to stay gone. His anger, his words, the feeling of total and utter separation your only company on the lonely journey along Highway 280 to Palo Alto. 

But Dean didn’t order you to do anything, he asked you to stay, begged you not to leave but eventually he let you go, allowed you the luxury, the freedom he could never have. Gave you the opportunity to be normal, the chance to find yourself, to discover what you wanted from life. 

Only no one heard you silently scream as you were ripped away from him, not even Dean, but you did more than hear it, you felt it, deep inside as you fought to prevent it from clawing its way to the surface. You saw it in the look on Dean’s face when you told him you were leaving. You felt it the next morning as you just stood there and soaked up the sight of him sprawled face down across the sofa, watched him sleeping, his arms wrapped tight around the pillow, holding it close, the way he used to hold you. 

It’s been four years since you let the door close quietly behind you, four years of running, you used to think you were running away, only now you’re longer so sure. You’re not sure whether you were running away from the truth or running toward it. Because now you know, that it’s not who you love, it’s how you love, it’s loving someone so much you’d do anything for them, even if means letting them go. 

And that’s the moment when all the apologies fall away to nothingness, because Dean doesn’t need an apology, not now, not then and not ever. Because what you did, leaving isn’t something you did wrong. It’s something you did right. It’s something you needed, something you both needed. It was having the strength to walk away, to take what Dean was offering you and you understand that now. What did Dean did, what he allowed you to do because he knew what you had yet to learn. That loving something doesn’t always mean holding on to them, clinging to them in a desperate attempt to have what isn’t yours to take. It’s wanting what’s best for that other person, the person you love, even if it means you don’t get what you want. 

The way you should have walked away from Jess. 

And maybe if you had she’d be alive, she’d have everything you ever wanted for yourself, and she’d be safe. And maybe if you had, if you hadn’t stolen the piece of her heart she could have given to someone else, if you had let her go, the way Dean did for you. If you’d have had the strength Dean had, Dean has then maybe she’d be happy. She’d have found someone else--someone who could have shared her life and given her happiness, instead of the horror you’ve come to know as normal, and the pain which has lead you to where you sit right now. 

It’s been six days since Jessica died and tomorrow you’re leaving Palo Alto, you didn’t even have to pack, everything you own is in the small bag you packed to leave for Jericho save for one thing. You reach under your pillow, fingers brushing against the cold metal of your gun to reach for the small scrap of paper. You don’t need to unfold it to know what it says but you do it anyway as you look up at Dean and see the same words echoed there on Dean’s face. 

Missed you. Love you! 

Jessica’s gone and you’re back to being on the opposite side of the room to Dean, both of you silent, neither one able to breach the gap, to sidestep that gaping chasm which has always kept you apart. You used to think you were so different you and Dean but you’re not, you used to think you could have normal but you can’t. You used to be so afraid to reach out to him, reach for him because it would mean losing yourself and becoming someone else,something else but it doesn’t. 

You look up from the piece of paper held tight between your fingers, see the way he’s watching you but he doesn’t say a word, he just smiles. The way he used to smile when you were younger, when you were afraid, when he seemed to make the world disappear until there wasn’t anything or anyone else who mattered. Until the world consisted of nothing but a cheap motel room and the two of you. 

And you finally release the breath you’ve been holding, the air leaving your lungs on a rush of breath that sounds like his name... 

Dean... 

And you watch as he shifts on his bed, takes a deep breath and stands up never once looking away as he takes a step closer, smile never wavering, shoulders set, his voice quiet but confident against the silence as he whispers your name... 

Sam... 

And then he’s there, in your space, breathing your name, the feel of his breath hot against the skin of your neck, his fingers curling in your hair as he brings your head down to rest against his shoulder. 

And it’s all the things you ever wanted. It’s normal and safe because it’s Dean. It’s Dean holding you, whispering the words over and over... 

It’s gonna be okay, Sammy... 

You step closer, needing the feel of his touch, the feel of his lips as they graze across your cheek, down along your jaw line, seeking your warmth, tasting your grief, your fear... breathing it in, everything you feel. Just as he’s always done, Dean sharing your pain, assuaging your fears, the sound of his voice, the feel of his touch chipping away at the darkness to dull the ache and lighten the load, the way only Dean could. 

You used to think that the only way for both of you to be whole was for one of you to break, to fall into the abyss that separated you but it didn’t, it doesn’t. It just takes this, the first tentative step, for one or both of you to reach across, to meet each other somewhere in the middle, until finally, you’re where you’ve always wanted to be, where you belong, where you’ve always belonged. 

You’re home.


End file.
